I Know
by Myne Comix Meg
Summary: He's sorry. He knew that already. First Inception fic. Arthur/Cobb friendship/fluff; no slash. Read and review if it is worthy.


**A/N: (I was going to bed several nights ago, and this conversation between Cobb and Arthur just sort of came to me. Words in bold represent Cobb, words in italics represent Arthur, as the point of view switches between them. Not slash. Fluff, maybe. But not slash.**

**I apologize to those of you coming back to this and suddenly finding it so different. It just felt too skeletal with only 969 words, and I felt it needed more flesh. You have to let your characters' emotions and actions and thoughts build your story, and I didn't let them do that enough the first time, because I uploaded at night when I just wanted it up, and was only 90% sure it was perfect! I will get it to my satisfaction eventually. Meanwhile, e****njoy.**

**For Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who sang and danced and anti-gravity fought his way into my heart at the Oscars and in _Inception._ 'Cause he's just sorta boss that way.**

**Also for Leonardo DiCaprio, who is slowly growing on me as an incredible actor and a not-half-bad-looking man. He's also boss that way.**

**And for Christopher Nolan, creator of the amazing masterpiece _Inception _that has taken over my brain, and if you're reading this, yours, as well. He is totally boss that way.**

**Kudos to all the above for their individual and combined awesome, which made this possible.**

**You're waiting for a train... )**

* * *

A young man, in an immaculate three-piece suit, with slicked-back, chocolate hair walks into a peaceful café. He scans the room for his appointment. The place is quiet, lit by natural light from the outside, and buzzes warmly with the intimate conversations of friends on rendezvous. The heavy scent of fresh coffee and hot pastry hangs in the air as the slanting rays illuminate flecks of dust dancing between them.

Air.

He takes a deep breath. Fingers the red die in his pocket. The smooth edges and the white notches on its sides are comforting. Reassuring.

A middle-aged blonde man in slightly more casual attire hunches over a table, a lone, steaming cup of coffee cooling beside him. He is concentrating intently on a spinning top.

His appointment.

Adjusting his tie, he confidently steps up to the booth, and takes the seat opposite him. Silently, as always, as expected. The man looks up slowly at the last second.

Sky blue meets earthen brown. Enough of a greeting to warrant allowing a cup of coffee to be pushed into his personal space. A part of him shivers, the heat radiating from the beverage dispelling a sort of chill he didn't know was hanging around the nape of his neck.

The top falls...

This is reality.

And neither of them want to say a word to break it.

But still...

**...**

* * *

"I'm sorry," he says, shattering the carefully constructed atmosphere of silence between them.

And he means it this time.

Not like there's ever been a time when he hasn't. He just really means it now. Sincerely, he feels it. And he wants_ him_ to feel it, too.

But he can't tell what_ he_ feels, even though he wants to. _He_ doesn't let show on_ his_ face too often what goes on behind it. It's more a mask for _him _than a canvas. Something he's grateful for when they are on mission, but wishes _he'd _discard once they've come up and out so_ he_ can experience the relief of feeling and being real to the people around _him_. The ones who care the most about _him. _The ones that want to see _his _heart as he's had a chance to see it on a very few, very unguarded occasions.

Like this one should be, but isn't, because _he _is hiding.

He likes to think he knows _him_ better than the rest. And in actuality, he probably does. Prides himself on the fact that they've been able to get close outside of the job. Who shares dreams and doesn't? But even with the knowledge of that intimacy, he still feels like _he _hides from him more than from any of the others. Probably because they don't prod like he does when he wants to discover _him_. Others eventually give up at _his _screens, but he doesn't. So _he _hides _himself_ behind multiple layers of calm and control, and he doesn't like it.

He has a right, the years say he has. But_ he _is a point man, after all. The best. Keeps _his_ emotions close to the chest instead of holding them out, an offering to be seen by the closest players of the game, like he does. It feels right to him to live that way now, though. Keeps him sane when he knows people care, and they know he cares, too.

That method doesn't work with _him_, though. _He _feels_ his_ safest when _he's_ at _his_ most protected; something _he _probably learned from him. Something he shouldn't have taught _him_.

He only wanted _him_ to be safe. Now _he_ is unwilling to be vulnerable. Honest.

A clock loudly ticks away the scene somewhere in the background, but he ignores it because they are awake at the moment, and he doesn't need to be on guard for the kick. It isn't coming, thank goodness, or so his totem told him.

So he sighs and waits for the man sitting across from him to say something. Anything.

To stop stirring _his_ coffee and look at him.

**...**

* * *

He stirs his coffee until it whirlpools and tries not to look into **his** eyes. They're earnest, sincere, and that's good. But they're apologetic, and if there's anything he hates to see on** his** face, it's apologetic. It makes him feel he must be obliging, when he already knows he blew it all off moments after it happened and hasn't thought about it since.

Until now.

Now that he's thought about it, this feels silly. Unnecessary between two men who've grown closer than brothers, and died for one another countless times. They should be able to brush off anything by now, to forget the little things that appear as irritations on jobs. But **he **has a bad habit of holding on to the little things. Creating baggage out of random, nagging purse handles that he is completely able to toss away at a moments notice for the sake of a mission.

He thought they were through with this kind of thing. It used to happen a lot.

He briefly wishes for a weapon with which to end the prolonging lapse of silence. To end the dream, and wake up in his own room, alone in his own bed, to the smell and familiarity of his own house. Or for a mob of projections to pour in from out of nowhere and tear them apart, for the kick to come, or for the time on the clock to run out.

But there are no weapons or projections, no floods or shifting gravity, no sense of falling, French music, or unusual watches in sight. Just the one ticking away in his ears, in his brain, because he wants desperately to concentrate on anything but the man in front of him, and this is what he zeros in on from out of the murmurs of the sparsely arranged crowd around him.

Maybe he just wishes for a gun so he can shoot the dumb clock.

Because this isn't a dream, he knows, and he's not suicidal. Just tired and uncomfortable with this topic. And tired.

Steam is his only comfort, as it wafts up to moisten his face.

He can almost hear **him** thinking. Breathing. Waiting for him to react.

And still, he doesn't look up.

**...**

* * *

_He's_ still stirring. He can tell this is making_ him_ uncomfortable. Why, he's not entirely sure. He's trying to apologize.

He has to do something to make _him_ stop. Get _his _attention.

Decides to touch _his_ hand. Knows it's probably not the best idea to touch _him_; _he's_ a sort of limited contact kind of person. Not used to displays of affection. Well, no, it's not really that; that would be strange. But it's something close to that. Heck, maybe it is that! Actually, he thinks it's more of a brotherly concern. There. Less awkward. For him, anyway. _He_ might still find it awkward.

But _he _just won't stop stirring! Is it so hard? Or is it all just that annoying.

He sighs again.

Here goes nothing. Maybe _he'll_ respond finally, for goodness sake.

**...**

* * *

Skin, warmer than the dusty light from the window. _He_ startles at it, a rattle of silverware against china. Wasn't expecting that, lost in _his_ thoughts. _He_ makes a loose fist. Remembers **he** is just naturally touchy, and decides not to clock **him**. It's not **his **fault_ he's_ being less than communicative.

A few ceiling fans stir dust, light, and air, mixing a magically focused, concentrated, rather intense atmosphere. _He _doesn't understand how people relax here. _He _feels too tired to even breath...

Air.

_He_ inhales slowly. Feels vulnerable. Incredibly so. Supposes that's a good thing, but doesn't allow_ himself_ to feel it yet. Maybe in a minute, when **he **removes **his** hand.

**His** hand leaves; lifts and goes away. _He _exhales even slower.

**He** thinks _he's_ listening now.

"Arthur-," **he** starts.

"Dom." _He_ stops** him**. Honestly stops **him**.

_He's_ never used** his** first name before. _She_ used it...

"No, I'm serious," **he **just has to continue, "You didn't deserve that. I really am sorry."

_He_ gives up the coffee. It's never tasted good to _him_ anyway; _he_ likes tea. And coco. Pushes it to the side against the wall. Room for _his_ folded arms.

**His** eyes are still earnest, and intent, trained on _his_ forehead because_ he_ isn't looking up, not yet. _He_ can still feel the apologetic.

But for some reason, it suddenly makes _him_ smile. _He's_ too tired. **He's **too persistent. And constantly sorry. Sensitive. They both are.

_He _distantly wonders when **he **forgot how close they've become, how similar. Because they are, even though they can both forget at times. It seems more constant on _his _mind, but _he's _certain it's the same in **his**. Guesses** he** just needs to be told. And retold. Reminded. Relieved.

Decides to give **him** that, the knowledge back, at last.

"I know you are."

**He** exhales in relief. **He** knows the kid is a forgiver. Forgets it all too often. Realizes **he's** been holding **his** breath.

It almost feels good to them now. Almost. Not silly. Sincere.

But still...

"I knew it back in the dream."

Now **he** startles. And **his** eyes change. **His** face doesn't hide anything.

_His_ smile brightens.

"How?"

**He** had been angry then. And afraid. But in the back of it all, **he** was sorry, too. And _he_ had seen it, even through everything else, in those blue eyes that couldn't lie to _him _no matter how much **he** might want them to.

"Your face can't hide anything. Even when you look like that."

_He_ looks in **his** eyes. They are surprised, but clear. Better for the forgiveness. Perhaps obliging isn't part of the equation at all. Just human kindness. Understanding. Now _he_ feels better because the air is clear, too.

"I know all your looks," _he _admits, and that makes him feel safe, and yet not at the same time. Honest and real. Vulnerable.

And it _is_ good. Almost serene. Definitely sincere.

"That one was sorry, because of what you knew-,"

"...And didn't tell until the last second."

_He_ nods. Looks down at _his_ hands. They are small, and yet they hold so much together simply by saying_ his_ pardon isn't to be begged. By acknowledging that mutual understanding between them of nerves and breaking points. By accepting a cup of bitter coffee.

**...**

* * *

Cobb notices _he's_ abandoned _his_ coffee. Suddenly remembers Arthur hates coffee, especially when _he's _trying to relax after a difficult mission. And this last one had been a very taxing experience. The most complex and unusual to date, even though they have the most unusual, most unpredictable jobs in the world.

"Oh. I'm, uh, sorry." About everything, this time.

They both think **he's** forever apologizing.

But Arthur smiles again, and places one small hand on a pair of larger, clasped ones, reassuringly. Despite the fact that _he _is _not_ touchy.

The top is in there; _he_ knows.

Sky and earth meet and stay together. Mutual understanding.

Friendship.

The bond closer than brotherhood that doesn't have a name yet, unfortunately.

Yes, the top is still in there. In their line of work, it always will be. But the shade is gone. And they can both breath.

It truly has been a merry chase.

**...**

* * *

A waiter is bringing _him_ some tea, but _he_ doesn't think _he'll_ want it when it gets here.

_He _wants to leave. _He_'s never liked this particular coffee shop, and surmises that the only reason **he** chose to meet here is because _he_ looks like the type that would patronize it. _He _sighs a little, thinking _he _knows Cobb much better than Cobb knows _him. _Smirks inwardly at the thought that **he **probably thinks the same thing about _him_. Realizes how sad yet amazing it is that they'll never really know everything about each other, no matter how much they want to.

At least they can get pretty darn close to it. Or try anyway. It doesn't take much effort on either of their parts. It never does with this kind of relationship.

That's a comforting thought and _he_ holds it close. Hopes **he **feels the same, at least in this respect; they can be so different at times.

**He **does, though. And maybe someday, they'll figure that out.

**...**

* * *

This place is starting to get on **his **nerves. Annoying. It was freeing at first, confessions and apologies flying left and right. But now **he** feels it starting to constrict their moods and opinions, stifling their personalities, because it's gotten very busy, and somehow managed to stay that overly-polite, self-conscious, buzz-hum quiet.

It's too structured. Chaotic, but quiet; dull, yet bustling. If they were dreaming, **he's** not sure **he** could figure out which one of them created this place. **He** didn't think **he** was the type.

They're both getting antsy and uncomfortable. Restless. **He** can feel it - sense it, almost - so** he **knows _he_ can, too. Knows they're not used to being still this long without being asleep (in action), or in some stage of planning. Up here, they have to conform to reality, and the different behaviors that accompany being awake and around people who aren't projections. And right now, everything equates to complete boredom! It's important to come up, and they've learned this the hard way in the past. It's also refreshing to relax, of course. But not here. Here, there is too much formality, unlike in dreams and other places that aren't old.

Ideas are forming. Fun, crazy ones. And **he** can tell neither of them feel like doing formal their second day out.

**...**

* * *

"Sorry about invading your personal space, there," says Cobb, pocketing his totem, referring to that moment lost in time. "In case you're wondering, I'm not gay," **he** adds with raised brow by way of humor. It's a stupid joke.

Arthur ducks _his_ head, facing another apology. But **his** eyes are smirking. Because **he** isn't sorry. Just sincere, and sincerely tired. Ticked by the atmosphere.

_He_ replies the way _he_ always has. Always will, after this.

Smiles.

"I know."

**His **smirk becomes contagious, as does** his** retarded humor.

"And, Dom?" _he_ adds, pausing for effect. "I'm not gay, either."

Reconstructed order is burst, exploded by irrepressible, uncontrollable, true, young laughter.

**...**

* * *

This is reality (or so their totems told them).

The silence has been broken to bits, not to be fixed again in this place. Dignity is only slightly recovered as the world in the tiny shop turns and looks on at two incredibly comfortable, goofy young men laughing inordinately at the stupidest things, and arguing amiably about the tip and who is going to carry the take-out tea.

They know they look ridiculous, out of place. If this were a dream, they'd be dead by now. Awake. Gunned down by projections that can tell when what is legit in a space and what is not has been breached. Infiltrated. And in a way, this is true. They've been away for a while, in their minds anyway, and they aren't fitting in yet. They don't want to.

But this is reality. No need to fix themselves. Just change their surroundings the only way they can when they're not dreaming.

So they leave; get up and go away. Because they're not dreaming. It's a warm Saturday stateside with nothing to do but walk or run, and find trouble or peace at their leisure, when they feel like it. No, they don't know where they're going, but they'll end up there together, which is really all that matters.

And they'd much rather actually relax somewhere else.

**...**

* * *

Finis

**...**

* * *

**A/N: (I have broken in on a new fandom! Let me know what you think of what I've done with my favorite characters. Set after** _**Inception**_** by a day or so.****  
**

**A couple amazing songs to listen to when reading this or any _Inception _fic is "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons, and several versions of the instrumental "Time" by Hans Zimmer from the _Inception _soundtrack. I had those songs on repeat while writing this and I think they might've helped, like, a lot!**

**I know tons of people have written epilogue scenes with this kind of apologetic ending, but the boys always end up in the emo corner of a bar, Cobb drinking and bringing up painful subjects to remind Arthur he's not a as much of a failure as he is, and Arthur being angsty and icy until the last second over black coffee. I wanted something a little more intimate and refreshing. So I wrote this as the apology epilogue for Cobb's ballistic fit, in a coffee shop, with Cobb trying to get Arthur out of work mode, and Arthur trying to make Cobb see he already knows. And everything works out at the end of the fluff!**

**Fluff is good for the soul and s****o are reviews because they are help and love! Let me know your thoughts! **

**I thank you.)**


End file.
